


Live And Let Die

by ch3rryvodk4



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Requested fic, Retirementlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 02:24:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ch3rryvodk4/pseuds/ch3rryvodk4
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After so many years of love and a truly happy life, all good things must come to an end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Live And Let Die

John's hands tremble as he clutches Sherlock's. It aches, just the very touch, the exertion it requires, but he feels he'll die without the reassuring contact. He's likely to die soon anyway, but that fact does little to change anything. The waves of pain that ebb through his body he can deal with, he's used to them, but it's the dagger-like stabbing pain and twisting ache in his chest that he cannot bear. It is Sherlock, of course, that wards away such a feeling, that lets him feel safe and loved, even here at the end. 

Sherlock. Oh god, Sherlock. What was he going to do when John died? John, yes, is old. He is weak, sick and ready to die. They've had such an amazing life, him and his husband, but perhaps now, in their twilight years, it is time for their adventure to end. John can die happy now, living out his days with the only man he's ever loved so dearly. He's comfortable here, in this home. After Mrs Hudson had died, they'd moved out, unable to ever stay there without her. John wishes he could remember whatever did happen to 221B Baker Street, after they left. Something did, surely, but what? Oh if only his mind were as good as it was all those years ago. But he knows it must have been something good, because despite all his protests, Sherlock is deeply sentimental when it comes to the few people he really and truly loves.

That thought reassures him. He is happy, now, and has accepted that death is very much on his doorstep. In fact, it is probably more than just on his doorstep but knocking fervently at the door, barred by the miracles of modern medicine and a very stubborn Sherlock Watson-Holmes who is very much afraid of losing his husband. When he starts to fade, a nurse will be called in briefly to set John on a morphine drip to make his passing as painless as possible. John resisted such a notion at first, but Sherlock pressed, and John could not refuse his husband, the man who had to watch him die, with no way to save him now.

Sherlock had saved John from bullets, poison, snipers, bombers and hit-men; any threat that dared rear its ugly head towards John Watson-Holmes was immediately annihilated by his over-protective and extremely clever husband. The feeling goes both ways, and John remembers, even now, countless times that he has been the one to save Sherlock, but often from different monsters; the endless noise in his head brought on by his own mad brilliance, many a danger night when nicotine was banned from the flat, floorboards were searched for fine white powder, and Sherlock was curled into a tight ball, sobbing into John's chest as his body and mind alike screamed for some sort of desperate rush of adrenaline, dripping blood, or dangerous drug. So they protected each other in an endless cycle of devotion and bravery and cleverness and so very many adventures shared together. 

This is their final adventure. If either of them had the energy to make light of it, they would say it was a horribly dull and rather tiresome adventure. Yet it seems that most adventures they have these days are rather mundane. Shuffling down to the rec center to fake their way through some sport-for-the-elderly and shuffle back to their room is hardly worthy of sharing the same title as running halfway through London on the heels of a heavily armed suicidal serial killer strapped with explosives. 

There is most certainly a part of John that is ready to go, that has accepted that such nights of reckless abandon are long past, and it is time to have faith that he and Sherlock will be young and energetic and happy and in love once they have both ascended to whatever higher power there is in the Great Beyond. John, the still-living-but-barely John is an old man with creaking joints and brittle bones. He is very happy to be alive, to be with Sherlock, to have been so lively when he had the chance, but he does ache for a good long rest now. But there is another part, the part that still craves the blood of the wicked and the hot steel of a fired bullet, that wants desperately to somehow live and live and never stop. It is the part of him that was a soldier, a detective, a passionate lover and the most mad man there ever was to have willingly chased Sherlock Holmes all these years. 

He was both selfish and selfless in his desire to stay. First and foremost, there was Sherlock to think about. What would become of him, without his reason for life to continue living? They'd been together nearly sixty nears - no, more than sixty years - no, sixty exactly - no, damn! His memory continues to escape him, and he curses his mind for have coming to this. 

But Sherlock, oh precious, perfect Sherlock. His heart gives a lurch - one of intense emotion, as his heart has yet to fail him (he eats and exercises well, something he prides himself on, though cannot say the same for his sweet-toothed husband) - and his grip tightens on Sherlock's hands. The other man reacts immediately, suddenly alert and attentive. "John?" He rasps, voice dry and worn, like leather. Sherlock has always been remarkably similar and yet incredibly different from leather. As a young man he was vibrant and smooth and classy, but older he is weathered, cracked, soft but faded. He was never so tough as leather, though, not if you looked at him. He had a voice like silk that dripped with sex even as he pondered on the state of his taxes. 

But gone were the glory days of Holmes and Watson, crime-solving duo extraordinaire. In their place, a pair of sentimental old Watson-Holmes men, simply waiting to die. They are achy and dull, but have a love that had passed the test of time with flying colours and thousands of kisses. 

John felt hotness prick at the corners of his eyes and blinked until it faded somewhat. "I'm afraid of dying. I've accepted it, but I'm still afraid. I just… More than anything, I don't want to leave you," he admitted. His voice cracked, though he would have defended it to his last that it was merely vocal chords acting up in his weary old age. They were not tears welling up in eyes like some weepy teenager. Not that that was a completely appropriate analogy. Not all teenagers were about to die after too many years of living, but every year of that life worthwhile to have spent it with someone like no one else in this universe or the next. Even in a world of infinite universes and infinite realities and infinite timelines, there could not have been another Sherlock like the one John had. His Sherlock wasn't one in a million, but rather a singular existence in all of infinity. He tried to speak again, but his throat was much too tight. Probably all for the best. 

It's not as if he even needs to speak. Even without words, Sherlock understands. He gives John's liver-spotted hands a gentle squeeze to express his comprehension of the words that he reads in John's still-sparkling blue eyes and the furrows that line his brow and sag along his cheeks and now multiple hanging chins. "I don't want you to leave either," he says, tears streaming freely down his face, uncaring what he must look like, falling apart. "I wasn't even _alive_ until I met you. How can I ever hope to live again once you've gone?" His voice shakes worse than John's own uncontrollable hands. 

"If I… If I lived…" John furrows his brow, lines deepening there even more. "That's not quite right. Hold on. Oh! That's it. Sherlock. If _you_ live to be a hundred, I hope to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you," he recites carefully, biting at his lower lip to keep it from trembling as he nearly cries. 

Sherlock gives a sad smile and a shake of his head. "You quote a children's book in our wedding vows, and now they're famous last words. Even now, John Watson, you never fail to amaze me. But that isn't very creative, you know," he chides softly.

John gives a wry laugh, which quickly becomes a cough. "Even here, at the end of all things, I'm still John Watson, not even a-" He coughs dreadfully, lungs unable to support him for much longer. He is frail, paper-thin, and so very, very breakable. He hates being so weak, and when it comes to things like this he cannot wait to die. But it is a bit easier to accept your fate when you know what is coming thanks to all the painfully obvious signs beforehand. "A Watson-Holmes," he breathes out finally. "I did marry you for a reason, you see. I wanted to share something with you, a name at the very least. And you, my very dear Sherlock, are as I am, a wondrous Watson-Holmes in all your brilliant, stubborn glory. How I love all of it, you pretentious git."

Even a grieving Sherlock cannot help but laugh. But it is a dry, forced sound, like expelling dusty air from one's lungs rather than expressing joy or disbelief. It nearly hurts to remember when Sherlock's laugh, his deep baritone voice, the smooth hum and purr and perfect cadence of his voice was one of the most beautiful things about him. "Sentiment, my dearest John," he scolds, playfully, bringing John's gnarled hand to his chapped lips, pressing soft kisses to each bony knuckle in silent reverence. John smiles and pulls his hand down and with it, Sherlock, to kiss him directly. Thin lips slide together in tender kisses, just as tentative yet eager and loving as the first time they gave in to the desires that forced them together. There is every bit of adoration, affection and amazement in that last kiss as there had been on the day when they'd both sworn, 'I do.'

But it is too much for John. He needs his mouth to breathe, his nose no longer taking in enough oxygen to keep him going. He pulls away, violent coughs and hacks racking his body. Two, three minutes pass in a slow-motion, soundless blur. Sherlock is about to venture into the hall to call for a nurse when John stills once more. His eyes have never been so brimming with tears and filled with so much love as when he says to Sherlock, "It's time."

Sherlock feels his heart stop beating. But then, of course, the damned thing begins to beat once more, keeping him alive to witness the death of the only person he's only ever truly given himself, every part, to. He shakes his head in protest, holding on tightly to John's hands. "No. Not yet. You can't leave me, I'm not ready, I don't want to be alone again, John. Please, please don't leave me yet. _I'm begging you not to go. Just a few more days, **please!"**_

John feels his cheeks warm with tears finally shed and kisses Sherlock's hand, his fingers, knuckles, palm, anything he can reach. "I love you, so much. Remember that. There has never been a thing in my life - in _our_ life - that I have loved so much as you." John doesn't even process it, but suddenly there is a nurse and then she is gone and everything starts to hurt just a little less. So this is it. "I love you," he mumbles again, his vision going hazy. He doesn't like hazy. Hazy means Sherlock is out of focus. Even old and leathery and more than just a little bit slower than he used to be, Sherlock is still the most gorgeous, marvelous, wonderful thing John has ever seen in his life. 

But at least he still has touch. He can still feel Sherlock, holding his hands and crying into his chest. He feels the warm dampness on his shirt, just barely reaching his skin. "I love you too," John hears. It must be Sherlock, he thinks. God, he sounds so… _Broken._ "Just wait for me. I'll be there soon. I'll come with you, I'll follow you, and neither of us will ever be alone, not ever, ever, ever again. I promise you, John, okay? Just wait. Just a little bit longer, please."

_'You were never alone, Sherlock.'_

 

John doesn't know if he says this aloud or not, but the thought is most certainly there. It is most certainly his last. John is most certainly gone.

**Author's Note:**

> for tumblr user mattsmiths-booty  
> I hope this is what you wanted, though it turned out a bit sadder than I'd intended...


End file.
